


where tyrant virtue reigns alone

by trell (qunlat)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Post-Castle Nathria, Shadowlands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29719974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qunlat/pseuds/trell
Summary: The Accuser’s worry strikes Theotar as misplaced, but he has other concerns regarding the prince; and it is not difficult, for one who has kept Renathal’s company in recent weeks, to guess where he has gone.Theotar and Renathal after Nathria.
Relationships: Prince Renathal & Denathrius, Prince Renathal/Theotar the Mad Duke
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	where tyrant virtue reigns alone

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [azie](https://nanakomahina.tumblr.com), again, for the simply ruthless enabling.

So chaotic is Sinfall after the rebellion’s conquest at Nathria that it takes Theotar until the dust has settled to notice that the prince himself is nowhere to be found. The Accuser presides alone over the hubbub, her voice carrying sharply through the sanctum as she directs the transfer of their new acquisitions—to wit, one Kael’thas Sunstrider, Lord of the Blood Elves, and cartloads of weaponry from across the realms eternal. Renathal’s confident tones are conspicuously absent from the din.

Theotar drifts through the crowd, and is almost unsurprised when the Accuser catches him by the arm, leaning to hiss in his ear. “Find the prince, please. Ensure he makes it to tonight’s festivities.” She vanishes again into the crush before he can say anything in reply, borne away by the milling Avowed.

Her worry strikes Theotar as misplaced, but he has other concerns regarding the prince; and it is not difficult, for one who has kept Renathal’s company in recent weeks, to guess where he has gone. So Theotar gives him time—enough time, he hopes—and then steps through a mirror leading up to the battlements around Sinfall, meaning to make for Dawnkeep.

He’s forced to reverse his journey almost immediately by the discovery that the weather topside is _frigid,_ Revendreth’s heights dark and windswept. The glimpse he catches over the edge of the battlement before ducking back inside gives every indication of a coming storm: the shadows of the In-Between boil over the cliffs below, and across the chasm Dominance Keep is wreathed by the roiling gloom, ominously looming. Within a few hours all of Revendreth will be blanketed by the clinging black, cold enough to freeze mortal blood.

In the meantime, going outside shirtless is _entirely_ out of the question.

He steps through the shadows to shorten the route to his chambers, and reemerges again through the battlement mirror wrapped in an enormous coat of stuffed down. Hardly a garment he’d dare to be seen in at court, but Renathal has seen him wear worse.

Theotar pulls the coat tightly about himself, and sets his mind upon finding the prince.

Most of the time Renathal’s wards render him invisible to Theotar’s inner eye, but when the prince has recently used his magic he glows like a beacon, as now. It takes only a moment of searching for Theotar to feel the thrum of Renathal’s power, that overflowing font of anima against the background noise of the universe. No doubt the prince still trails red when he moves, if he’s been expending himself with such force.

It would be imprudent to teleport into his presence just now, so Theotar trudges off down the battlement towards Renathal’s thaumaturgical echo on foot. He finds him, eventually, at edge of the crumbled platform looking out towards Dominance Keep, himself clad in a heavy long coat with an enormous fur ruff. Renathal’s eyes are fixed on the swarming darkness below, and he does not look up at Theotar’s approach.

Theotar affects a casual tone. “Rather chilly for an evening stroll, isn’t it?” He comes to a stop at Renathal’s side, and looks down along with him. Nothing there appears worthy of the prince’s attention; indeed, the only thing it has to recommend it is—Theotar finds—being the only direction in which one cannot see the blazing star newly ignited at the top of Dawnkeep Tower, piercing the dark clouds gathered around it.

He does not ask Renathal about it yet.

A dark shadow passes by overhead, and Theotar flinches back for the instant it takes him to feel the familiar shape of the soul. It’s only Chelra the Bladewall, no doubt watching over the prince while Draven suffers himself to be repaired by the stonewrights of Sinfall. Renathal sees the motion, and says, in place of greeting, “I wished to be alone. Chelra was courteous enough to permit it.”

“If you’d rather I depart . . .” Theotar would almost be willing, for how cold it is topside. Renathal hardly seems to notice, but Theotar feels himself well on his way to freezing, with deep regrets about his sartorial choices. He wishes he had on a _hat_.

“No. Do stay.” The prince’s reply is fast enough that Theotar does not suspect him of politeness.

“In that case, permit me to congratulate you on your victory. The story of it is growing in the telling, downstairs—I fear you must intervene soon if you wish to keep it in check.”

“Oh, but you should have seen it, Theotar.” For a moment Renathal is _present_ , wholly himself, and Theotar is reminded all over again why so many venthyr would follow him anywhere, take up arms and wage war merely at the prince’s word. He counts himself among their number. “Our moment of triumph, the Maw Walker and Bolvar’s champions at my side—it was a victory for the ages. For all the realms eternal.” Just for an instant, Renathal smiles. “We owe our new friends a great debt.”

Theotar, who has spent the last three interminable days fairly biting his fingernails in worry, says only: “I am simply glad to see you _back_ , my prince.”

“It was a near thing,” Renathal says mildly, “when we faced General Kaal.” The moment’s levity falls away. “Draven endured great pain on my behalf. My debt to him will take still longer to repay.”

“The stonewrights are doing a fine job repairing the damage done to him, last I saw.”

“Indeed. We are fortunate that not all of the Stonewright’s people chose to remain at Denathrius’s side.” Renathal’s gaze strays towards Dominance Keep, now almost entirely swallowed by the encroaching black. “I hope very much that I have a sister in her still. But whether she will forgive me for the shattering of Kaal and Grashaal . . .”

It is a testament to the Stonewright’s care for her children that it’s Kaal and Grashaal’s deaths that Renathal fears will drive a permanent wedge between them, rather than his overthrow of their sire. And yet—something wrong, there; for in the time since Theotar climbed the battlement Renathal hasn’t glanced once towards Dawnkeep, nor mentioned the task at which he must have spent the last several hours. _Lies of omission,_ Theotar thinks, and says, “You imprisoned him, then.” No need to specify who.

“Yes.” Renathal’s tone betrays little. “Zi’rali has a new mission, now, stewarding our former Master.”

Theotar exhales. The fate Renathal has chosen for Denathrius is a harsh one, he has good reason to know. His own suffering in the Ember Ward is still fresh in his mind, enough that when he closes his eyes he can still see that wretched light on the other side of his eyelids, pitiless and piercing. Probably it will stay with him for the rest of his eternal existence, together with the peculiar bright fractures it has left in his mind.

Only fair, then, to subject the Master who flung them into the Ember Ward to that same torture himself. Theotar has never held any great love for Denathrius, having spent his own eons at court carefully avoiding any relationship with Revendreth’s Master; if Denathrius is in Zi’rali’s charge then he isn’t a danger to Renathal, and that’s all that Theotar cares for.

Renathal, though—

Theotar is well aware that the prince’s relationship with his sire is a different matter entirely from anyone else. In the beginning there had been Denathrius, and then there had been Denathrius and Renathal, even before the rest of the firstborn. Theotar cannot imagine—does not _want_ to imagine—how it must feel to turn on someone who willed you into existence, who knew you intimately from the moment you opened your eyes. _My oldest, dearest friend,_ Renathal had called him once, and Theotar knows that he had meant it, as much from being by Renathal’s side through the defeat at Darkwall as from the prince’s words.

And there must have been good in Denathrius, once, to have made someone like him.

So Theotar does not say _good riddance_ , or any other cruel truth that tempts his tongue. Instead he says—because he is a good friend, and because Renathal has always worn his heartbreak on his sleeve—“Are you all right?”

“I will be.” As clear a _no_ a any. “I must be, for us to forge on in our cause.”

“The Accuser would have a thing or two to say about that. So would Gubbins, for that matter.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Ah—well. Gubbins would put it as ‘better to pop the mud warts before they burst,’ I believe.” _Not_ a quote for polite company, but then, Renathal is nothing of the sort. Theotar has heard far worse things out of the prince’s mouth, in a particular mood. “Which is to say—you have my ear, if you wish it.”

Renathal frowns, looking silently out at the distant dark. Theotar lets the offer hang; it’s plain the prince is working up to _something_ , his thoughtful mood a reflection of some deeper current, some all-consuming thought.

He does wish the prince would do his thinking somewhere less _cold_.

At last Renathal speaks, his voice low. “I think that I had hoped—right up until the very last moment, up in his tower in Nathria—that the man I knew was still in there, somewhere. That he would change his mind, even after everything that he had done.” A shake of his head. “I knew better, of course. I told myself so, all the way up through the castle, and yet . . .”

 _And yet it hurt as a betrayal would, anyway._ Theotar nods.

Renathal doesn’t look towards him. “I ought to despise him, for the depths of depravity to which he descended. Instead I catch myself missing him, right up until I realize that I miss who he used to be, and not who he became.”

“We cannot help who we miss, my prince.” _Nor who we love._

(And would he himself have flung himself headfirst into the rebellion—into that sequence of events that had led him inevitably into the Ember Ward—without such personal motivation? Theotar would like to think so, and yet—to arrange the absence of that motivation he would need to have never met Renathal, never become his friend and confidant, never spent eons in the prince’s orbit. Who would either of them be, without each other? To not love Renathal would require being a different person altogether, and he cannot imagine what choices that person would make.)

Renathal merely breathes out a sigh. “Did I do the right thing? There is no one to tell me the answer, now.” Another gust of biting wind has him shrugging deeper into his coat. “I always valued that about him. He could have told me if I did what I did because I still believe in his methods, or out of base anger, retaliation for everything he wrought.”

“I don’t believe such questions _should_ be answered by anyone else.” Theotar stomps briefly in place, and expends a handful of anima on warming the interior of his own coat. His legs, alas, are still freezing. “But what choice was there? You could hardly have destroyed him”—he gives Renathal a sidelong glance—“could you?”

“No.” A grimace. “Unthinkable, to destroy a member of the pantheon. I fear that he spoke true, boasting to us from atop his throne. He _is_ Revendreth. This place—its power, its function—all of it flows from a single source. As I did. As the Curator and the Stonewright did, alongside me.”

“Then it seems to me that your choice was a gesture of great faith.” Head bowed, back straight, the prince cuts a lonely figure, even standing by Theotar’s side; Revendreth’s solitary warden, left to figure out its Master’s mess. Theotar doesn’t like that at all, he decides. He snakes a hand free, and reaches over to take Renathal’s, capturing it inside Renathal’s pocket.

Renathal’s return grip is firm, for all that Theotar’s fingers must be ice cold. “He was wrong about so much. Separating out which of our methods are truly the path to redemption, and which were made to serve his depraved whim . . . it seems an insurmountable task.”

Theotar understands. “You fear that subjecting him to Zi’rali will do nothing, in the end.”

Renathal closes his eyes, as though against some terrible pain. “Oh, yes.” For a long moment he is very still, motionless save for where the wind stirs the fur ruff of his coat against his face. When he speaks again his voice is low enough that Theotar has to strain to hear, even standing at his side. “But he taught me that even the foulest soul may be redeemed, given sufficient time. I must believe that, even now.”

 _Because to believe otherwise would hurt still more._ Theotar is entirely familiar with that twist of personal logic. He sidles closer to Renathal, and presses their shoulders together. “If anyone can redeem him, my dear, it is certainly you.”

“I wish I were so certain. I was a part of him, once. Who is to say the same darkness does not lurk within my own heart, waiting to make its claim?”

“I am. I _do._ ” Theotar is firm. “Everyone who kept our late Master’s company experienced a profound corrosion of character, you will note. The venthyr in his orbit came away with blackened souls and laden sinstones, whether or not they found his perversions agreeable. You . . . when you look at us, we stand straighter.” Small words, to capture the effect Renathal has on those around him: the way all of them are driven to be more than they are, more upright, more enduring, more kind. More _noble_ , perhaps, in the way that has nothing whatsoever to do with peerage. “You bring out the best in us, from the mightiest Harvester to the lowliest dredger. Even our mortal champions, I think, feel the draw.”

A curious tilt of Renathal’s head. “Is that a personal observation?”

“Yes,” Theotar says simply. “In this, the Maw Walker and I are aligned.”

“Then I suppose I must cede to your judgement.” A trace of a smile, but Renathal quickly sobers again. “I trust you will be watchful of mine.”

“Truly, my dear, I just don’t believe that Mad Master Renathal is in the cards.” Theotar squeezes his hand in reassurance.

Which makes Renathal snort, and reminds Theotar at last of his original mission, altogether forgotten in the course of their conversation. “Ah, but. The Accuser is quite concerned that you might not care to join us for tonight’s feast. What would you have me tell her?” He gives Renathal a brief, crooked smile. “I am ever steadfast in helping you escape dour parties, you know.”

“And abandon the rebellion in its moment of triumph, to nurse my personal sorrows? No, I think not.” Renathal seems to rouse from his introspection at last, giving an irritable toss of his shoulders. “Tell the Accuser she need not be worried about my attendance. I shall be there, to head the court and laud the downfall of our sire.”

The words are bitter; a cruel thing, Theotar thinks, to make Denathrius’s chief mourner preside over the celebration of his defeat. “Perhaps,” he suggests, “you might consider it a wake.”

“Known only to you and I, is that it?” Something of the prince’s usual humor touches his lips, the corner of his mouth turning up. His expression softens. “Thank you, my friend. I don’t discount what it takes for you to stand at my side, after what you suffered at his hand.”

“For you, my dear, I would endure worse.” Theotar gives a theatric shiver. “Though I’d rather not endure much more of this weather. Come inside, before we lose any important appendages?”

Renathal smiles wholly at that. “All right,” he says, and permits himself to be drawn away from the edge of the battlement. Theotar leads the way back inside, not letting go of his hand.

Dawnkeep burns on behind them.

The prince is true to his word, taking his place at the raised table that night. The speech he gives is stirring, exultant, filled with honest gratitude to his assembled forces. Theotar, seated among them, feels the level of elated pride rising around him like a tide. It is, in his judgement, precisely what they need to hear: an affirmation of their hard-won victory, victory _at last_ , the sort that redeems all prior losses. No trace there of the prince’s private grief, nor his lingering doubt.

Renathal has always carried himself well before his people.

It’s only because Theotar knows to look that he catches the hollowness in the prince’s eyes, and sees that it plunges down and down—all the way to the depths where Renathal must have buried his heart, to be able to smile like that. Theotar’s own heart spasms in tremulous sympathy, a chord struck, and he thinks: _damn_ Denathrius, in the most cosmic sense. He could wish a far fouler fate upon Revendreth’s former Master, for hurting the prince so.

And when Renathal raises his goblet in toast, some time later—to his sire’s downfall; to Revendreth, and its brighter future in its Master’s wake—Theotar holds his gaze, and lifts his own goblet more slowly, willing Renathal to take his meaning. _I know your sorrow,_ and _You do not mourn alone._

Renathal gives him an almost imperceptible nod in return, the barest tilt of his head.

Theotar tips back his wine.

He mourns solemnly, that night, though not for Denathrius; only for the fixed point shorn from the prince’s universe, and for Renathal’s unbroken heart.


End file.
